Beautiful Bomber with a Temper
by Heavensdarkrosechild
Summary: Fiona ponders her gun toting, bomb loving personality and Michael...well he reflects about Fi over yogurt.Some fi/michael banter as well. Love on me and check it out and maybe drop some critique so I can do better in the future :D


Bear with me on this it starts out kinda slow...I'd like to think its beautifully written to capture your attention but i could be horribly wrong...damn I hope I'm not wrong...

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She can't explain her attraction to guns and explosives. Trying to explain her almost unhealthy obsession would lead people to write her off as mental, scratch that they'd re-diagnose her as doubly psychotic...

Guns.  
She loves the feel of guns. The feel of cold heavy balanced metal that absorbs the heat of her hand and comes alive beneath her fingertips. The feel of immense power in such a variance of degrees in size and shape sends a thrill of wonder through her body.

She loves the look of guns. The sleek dangerous build of perfect graceful lines. The beauty of intricate pieces made with careful precision all fit together to make a perfect powerful whole.

She lives on the thunder of power that crashes through fingertips up her arm all the way to her eardrums beating against her soul timed to the song of adrenaline. Guns are a symphony of movement and sound, organization and chaos.

Explosives.  
She loves the intricacies of bomb making. The methodic concentration that dulls the roar of emotions and thoughts. The distracting quality that has the ability to calm her the way no one and nothing else can. It creates a balance in her.

She'd be lying if she said that part of the appeal had nothing to do with the danger factor to her own life or the high of the adrenaline.

To her it's not about the destruction a bomb creates, though she will admit it's sometimes a bonus, it's about the piecing together of a large intricate puzzle that puts her mind and her skills to the test. One slip of the wrist, cutting into the wrong wire, mixing the wrong chemical, having too much or too little of a substance and BANG your gone.

Even setting off a bomb is an art form, too soon and you hurt the wrong people, too slow and you miss your target. It's a dance that has to be done with perfection and when you do it just right its breath taking to watch. The roar that echoes through the air beating at your eardrums sings a melody of divine destruction. Flames billow into the sky partnered with smoke to dance with the wind and create beautiful fluid wild motion. The power of the blast growls through the ground receding to a satisfying purr of vibrations that gets beneath your skin.

She doesn't know precisely what it is about guns and explosives but they tug at her soul and fill her with deep longing that can only partially be fulfilled by touch and interaction. But there's still a void of need left when she's done maybe that's why she turns to men and maybe that's why Michael has accused her of using violence as foreplay. She can't be blamed though, really, what's left if you don't feel love for the body you're using or in the case of turning to Michael it's too dangerous for her to show affection because that might just equal rejection...violence is the only option.

Guns and Explosives make sense...life does not.

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Fiona snorts at her philosophical turn of thought as she splices the wires for Michael's bomb.

Michael pulls his head up from a file involving their latest case. He looks at her cross legged bent form on the floor of his loft serenely splicing wires and shaping C4.

"What?" he asks automatically then mentally curses his stupidity. That one word question could cause a lot of trouble, opening doors he never wants to see open with Fiona sitting there. She has the ability to take an innocent inquiry and turn it into something that is sure to bite you in the ass and possible end with her teeth in your flesh and not always in a good way.

She doesn't turn from her creation, not that he expected her to. When it comes to Fiona and things that go boom they take priority over etiquette of conversation not that Fiona ever really resorts to using etiquette of any kind. He can just make out the wry smile in the fading daylight that has graced her lips as she shakes her head. He can't tell if the shake was for his benefit or her thoughts.

He continues to watch, he knows it shouldn't be so easy to watch someone. It's the part of his job as a spy that he despises and you'd be surprised how much of covert operations is observation and not so much gun toting. He's done more gun toting, bomb exploding, and bullet dodging as a burned spy in Miami than he has as a Covert Operative for the C.I.A. His job is to mainly watch, observe, report, and step in if absolutely necessary. He may dislike observing but that doesn't mean he doesn't excel at it, otherwise he wouldn't be a spy.

He finds himself amazed and appalled that he can sit and watch her with no qualms, no restlessness. He watches as the wry smile breaks out into a full blown grin as she puts the finishing touches on her latest device and realizes that he could watch her for days on end and never stop.

"Michael."

Of course, she'd probably kick his ass, as is evident in the tone she'd just used on his name.

It's shocking, the way she's able to say so much with so little. Just two small syllables can say so much with her. It's all she needs to say to express things like "I'm going to kill you", "Danger", "That was uncalled for", "Run for it", "Kill joy", "Please...Why not?", or his favorite though the most heart wrenching and scary "I'm not going to say it because it doesn't need to be said because you already know how much I care, be safe, come back". She packs all that and more into two little syllables that aren't suppose to change meaning, they aren't suppose to be anything but a name.

She knows he's been staring at her for a good thirty minutes. Any woman likes to be admired but thirty minutes is stretching it and it is Michael after all. He tends to think too much and that can get them into trouble.

"Michael!"

He flinches; the translation to those two syllables wasn't very nice. "Yeah, Fi?"

"Your staring." Why, is the unspoken question at the end of her statement.

He smiles and holds out the yogurt he was slowly snacking on.

She glares at him because she knows that's his way of politely avoiding the question. She snatches the yogurt from his hand, he can go get another.

"Why did you snort?" he asks in a strange contemplative tone.

She's not sure she likes where this is going, "I don't snort."

Michael rolls his eyes and tries again, "Why did you make that noise?"

"Why have you been staring at me for the past thirty minutes?" She retaliates.

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He can't...won't explain his feelings for Fiona. Trying to explain their relationship to anyone, even each other, is...it's tantamount to counting the stars and dangerous when factoring in Fiona.

Fi had once asked him if he wanted someone else, that was and is never a possibility not just because of his job but because the thought never crossed his mind. Fi always comes first...except for when he was busy protecting Fiona from himself and his life as a spy. An unfortunate paradox she doesn't seem to understand.

Fiona.  
She was Fiona when it was something extremely important.  
She was the woman that understood him in a glance, the only one who could come close to being able to predict his moods. The woman who was a paradox in itself. Complicated yet simple; emotions and background that twisted and gnarled in a tight impenetrable knot and yet was able to be happy with a good pair of shoes, a few guns on hand, and a bomb in the making. The woman who wanted immediate satisfaction in all aspects of life and who also had a surprising amount of patience. The woman that never, ever failed to come through for him.

Fi.  
She was Fi when expressing every emotion from fear to reprimand.  
She was the woman that matched him move for move and went toe to toe with him even when she was in the wrong. The woman who extolled Justice to the extreme and who's answer to violence was to strike back, "gun 'em down and blow 'em into hell". The woman that complicated his life to no end and the one person in the world that could convince him he was not alone and he didn't have to do it all by himself.

Where he was controlled and even, she was wild, fiery, and unafraid to express her true thoughts and emotions at any time, be it good or bad. Her simple uncomplicated view of life and the world kept him grounded and humble, eased his heavy burdens that he strapped to his own back with iron determination.

She moved with explosive grace that drew him and many men into her thrall. Hardly ever at a standstill even her expressions of love where fast and explosive much like her beloved guns and bombs.

They were quite the pair, especially to outsiders.

Sometimes Fi othertimes Fiona & Always Michael.  
Her vices are explosives and guns and his...well, his is her.

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So for my first attempt at BN fic how did i do? was it bad, boring, mind numbing? What? Come on give me a hint smiley face sad face amazed face, give it up people. Or I'll send out FiFi, fiona's evil doppleganger who doesn't have a michael to keep her in line so she just goes around blowing stuff up on a whim...I'll point her in the direction of your computer if you do not comply with my request and at least give a thumbs up or down...BOOOOOM!


End file.
